The Impossible Remains
by Covenlock
Summary: The mysterious case of a lethal wifi network draws Sherlock in, leading him towards the nearly paradox-like story of Clara Oswald. She's impossible. She's not. What is she? [Clara/Sherlock]
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Hello, everyone! This idea came to my head at three in the morning (entirely sober, of course). I've always admired both Sherlock Holmes and Clara Oswald, noticing similarities between the two—both enigmatic characters that don't seem to be easy to read upon first glance. They're both complex, and I thought bringing them together in one large fanfiction would depict how wonderful I think they would be in the same plot. To be clear, I own no characters in this story, only the self-composed story line.

Anyways, please do review, as it helps me a lot. And please bear with me, as I'm American and I am well aware that some words are spelled differently, some phrases different. However, I love to see insight as to what you're thinking of this fic. Thank you and happy reading!

* * *

The world's a fascinating thing, isn't it? Space, too, especially when you're traveling with the Doctor (because he won't shut up about it). But I'm focusing on the sheer beauty of humanity at the moment; something that not too many people take the time to sit down and truly appreciate. There are more than seven billion people inhabiting on planet earth, each one differing from the other in their own idiosyncratic way. And each person is like a puzzle piece. There's another person out in the world somewhere who has the matching part and one day you'll come together, whether you're friends or lovers.

Sherlock Holmes is my missing puzzle piece. He's truly an enigma, being logical all the time and trying to make sense of every person there is in the world. Some people just can't be explained, you know. Like me.

He calls me impossible. But what can I say?

The truth is that he can never figure me out, no matter how hard that man tries. I know it frustrates him to no extent. I just don't make sense; my life is a jumble of hows and whys. I'm simply (or not so much) the impossible girl.

My name is Clara Oswald and my story is just beginning.

* * *

September 21st, 2013. Friday. No recent cases that came about. John was being driven into insanity due to Sherlock's shouting and yelling and whining about his evident boredom/frustration. He didn't have a case, so he was throwing a fit… sort of. Sherlock's version of a paroxysm consisted of him tapping his fingers along the side of his armchair while he sat, staring into space hoping for some sort of distraction. There were so many other obvious signs that he was going insane (well, that was an overstatement, but true all together).

"John… I need a case. Now." Sherlock's tone hinted that he was soon going to slip into one of his fits as earlier described. That was something the army doctor wanted to avoid at all costs.

"Lestrade doesn't have any for you, Sherlock. Just wait a few days, maybe he'll call you later."

"BOOOOORED!"

Oh, how typical of Sherlock, who was now pacing in the room, palms pressed against each other in that pose he did when he was thinking or was trying to focus upon other ideas. The detective's general mien was baffling to everyone who encountered him—John would've loved to meet someone who thought Sherlock wasn't a mystery. His mind was far more complex than an average human being's was and it seemed to topple in on itself when he attempted to extend its limitations.

"Calm down."

"That's not possible. Normal people can just sit around doing nothing all day but I need to be busy! I need work, I need a case, my mind needs to be active all the time and if it isn't then I become bored. I'm bored, John!"

John shot him a look that said 'I'm-so-close-to-punching-you-in-the-face-unless-y ou-want-to-shut-up-and-stop-whining'. His friend was too aggravated to respond to it, instead going into another one of his rants about the differences between himself and the general society, how his mind worked, the usual.

In mid-sentence, however, Sherlock's mobile phone rang, the sound of the ringtone notifying both of them that he was receiving not a text, but a call. Who called Sherlock? Not many people. John did. Mycroft did. And Lestrade did.

It wasn't John. He doubted that Mycroft was calling him.

It had to be Lestrade.

The consulting detective's blue hues rounded, shaping into a doe-like form, then quickly striding from where he stood and into the kitchen, where the phone lay right next to his microscope. Almost faster than lightning, his hand grasped the device and answered the call as swift as possible, greeting with, "Do you have a case for me?"

"Yeah, there's been a call about several people going unconscious after clicking on a wifi hotspot. It has a weird name, just a bunch of symbols. We want you to investigate, but it's very dangerous."

"Danger is good." By then, Sherlock had a smug grimace curving his lips, satisfied that he now had a case. Danger involved? Even more fun for him. Thank the gods he was being brought out of his boredom, as John was starting to go mad because of it. Constant nagging and speaking, like a little child begging their parents for a scoop of ice cream. However, a case was much better than an ice cream cone to Sherlock. Always will be.

The two spoke on the phone for around twenty more seconds (the location of the scene being given, of course) before the call came to its end, the taller man of the two in the flat moving to where his coat and scarf lay, commencing on putting them on.

"What's the case?" John inquired, getting to his feet, eyes gleaming in pure curiosity.

"Involves a particular wifi hotspot. People go comatose when they connect to it."

"Does it have a name?"

"Does what have a name?"

"The wifi hotspot."

"Evidently, yes. But Lestrade hasn't—" Perfect timing! Sherlock's phone played the little beeping jingle, a text from Lestrade. It was a photograph that he took of a laptop although zoomed up on the wifi name:

┓┏ 凵 =╱⊿┌┬┐

"What the bloody hell does that say?"

"I don't recognize it as any kind of cipher. Not sure." John was captivated by now. Sherlock was clueless as to what exactly the name meant. That was unusual for him. However, geniuses like him required time to ponder over certain situations and formulate a deduction.

It was nearly time for fascination.

* * *

There was a short time of riding in the taxi until the vehicle came to a halt, the price of the ride being paid before stepping out to find an entire street isolated with vibrant yellow crime scene tape, recognizable faces seen sauntering about the area. Every person there, Sherlock noticed, seemed authentically baffled by the case. There was something special about this one and that made the detective happy on the inside. Mystery was fun. Danger was fun. To him… but to anyone else? Doubted it.

Holmes lifted the tape after stepping underneath it, allowing his companion to follow. Blue eyes skimmed over the entire event, trying to make a guess as to what had happened before asking any questions: a routine he underwent whenever he was called to an incident.

Lestrade's familiar face turned, his eyes locked on Sherlock and John, strolling over to them and crossing his arms over his chest immediately afterwards as if he were concerned about something or deep in thought.

"This one's definitely strange, nothing like we've seen before. The neighbors know nothing about it."

"What exactly happened?" Sherlock probed, answered as the other man gesticulated for the two of them to follow behind, turning on his heel and beginning to lead them towards a fairly large house, entering through the doorway. The first thing the detective noticed was a young woman laying down on the floor, clearly dormant, wearing a dark maroon dress and tights, medium-length brown hair parted in the middle, fairly tanned skin for a woman living in England. On the stairs above her was a… human? Her attire and general appearance resembled the one of Summer Falls by author Amelia Williams. Except, she had no face. There was only a screen. It seemed as if the woman laying down was on the screen, looking around frantically as if she were trapped. Was she?

"What's her name and how did you find her?" Sherlock asked, kneeling down beside the figure and examining the details.

"Clara Oswald, she's been unconscious for around an hour now. We don't know how or why, but it seems to connect with the wifi. We checked her laptop upstairs and she had clicked on it."

There wasn't much to be going on, really, which was what disappointed him. Wifi causing people to go into a quiescent state? It made absolutely no sense, but Sherlock swore to himself that he would figure it out as he usually did, which wouldn't be too complex...

Lestrade opened his mouth to answer, but was interrupted by a voice.

"Help me, I don't know where I am! Please… where am I? I don't understand… I don't know where I am!"


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: WOW. Just, wow. I have noticed this story has gotten some attention, and to that I'm truly shocked—happily astonished—that you enjoy my writing and the general plot! Very sweet of all of you and I appreciate reviews/follows/favorites. I'll try to update as much as I can, but I'm in a few AP classes and it's difficult to stick to this general plot I have written down when there are distractions. Bear with me! Anyways, here's the second chapter, please review and thanks again!

* * *

"_Help me, I don't know where I am! Please… where am I? I don't understand… I don't know where I am!"_

Sherlock's ears seemed to perk up like one of a dog's when hearing a container of dog food being shaken, while John and Lestrade's heads slowly turned to face what should've been the countenance of the young girl that seemed to derive from the Summer Falls book—a spoon-shaped indentation. Two of the men's jaws dropped, one's eyes rounding, eyebrows furrowing in cavernous focus. The most intelligent of the three was even confounded by it: the young girl with a computer screen replacing where her face should have been, but Clara was there. Her face. As if she were trapped inside or speaking from another place. How could that be?

Eyes darted about the body, taking notice of details, but trying to make them interconnect with the new piece of evidence. Nothing, nothing seemed to make any sense. There were of course obvious facts to the woman and who she was and what might've happened to lead to her being trapped, if that was the right word, but this was a case that baffled every single one of them.

"What… how is that possible?" John's voice finally broke through the silence, his features etching his evident incertitude like words on a page of a book.

"She looks like she's on a webcam," Lestrade added, although he was still in a state of appall from the perplexing visual of it all.

Both would keep spitting out their observations, but refrained from doing so, as Sherlock would only tell them to shut up and continue on with a deduction. But both John and Lestrade could see that he was stumped. This one was hindering him from the solution. It had to do with cleverness of technology, someone with great amounts of intelligence regarding computer science.

"Clara Oswald…" Sherlock murmured, using her name as a space filler whilst trying to work out the investigation, but questions upon questions clouded his mind like a mass of heavy, grey fog.

"I don't know where I am!" She repeated, this time her voice rising as she became more and more frantic. "Please help me! Can anyone hear me?"

"Hello? Yes, we can hear you." Sherlock wondered if she would be able to perceive any sound from where they were. If not, then it would turn into a much trickier situation, especially involving the hacking of technology and whatnot.

However, the woman couldn't hear them, only continuing on with her pleas and begs in a terrifying, feverish voice.

"The wifi."

Lestrade looked to the other man with a questioning manner. "What?"

"The wifi, you told me this all had to do with it. Where's her computer, did she eat it?"

Oh, Sherlock. Typical Sherlock, living to outwit every human on the entire planet until he was the smartest man on earth.

"No, it's upstairs in her bedroom," Lestrade told him, and without hesitation, the detective cautiously slipped past the 'girl' and up the steps, finally locating Clara's bedroom. A customary female room with purple and pink and blue, but that wasn't significant at the time. There sat her laptop, on a computer desk to the left of the doorway. Sherlock swiftly moved so he was standing before it, crouching down and sweeping his eyes over the networks: one said "Maitland_Family" and the other... the other was the symbol Lestrade had shown him.

┓┏ 凵 =╱⊿┌┬┐

He took his mobile from one of his pockets and examined the real-life laptop, and the photo he received. Exactly the same.

She must've been having trouble on the first network, seeing as it was locked by a pass code. Sherlock opened the small drawers underneath the top of the table, filing through key chains and papers and trinkets and books until he finally found—oh. Oh! On a small piece of paper hidden beneath a novel was, written in pen, a phone number. 'Helpline' was scribbled down on the top, indicating she was having issues with logging in and was trying to access help… yes! Yes, that was it. There was the answer.

Deciding that using his phone to call the number would do no harm (since it was on the website and whoever picked up would know it was him), he pressed the seven digits and allowed for it to ring. Ring, ring, ring… it was taking so long, twenty seconds was long enough for someone to reach their telephone and pick up. Maybe the number didn't work or it was a fake. Maybe—

"…Hello?..." A man answered from the phone, Sherlock almost sighing in relief. He was definitely getting somewhere with this, slowly, minute by minute, and was determined to figure it out as a whole.

"Know of a woman by the name of Clara Oswald?" There was a short silence from the other end of the line before the man spoke up once again.

"Who are you?" The Doctor was curious on how someone knew Clara, since he'd just been on the phone with her and now another person was calling him, claiming they knew of her as well. He'd keep it a secret for now that he was dressed as a monk in 1207

A content smile lifted the edges of his lips. He knew exactly who Clara was, as the silence generally indicated internal fear, then shielded by a sense of familiarity or reluctance. People could be read so easily, even if he closed his eyes and simply listened to them speaking. All in detail.

"The name's Sherlock Holmes."

"Sherlock Holmes, the detective?"

"Consulting detective."

"Oh! Well, never knew I'd be speaking to you. Time's all funny and I never get it in order."

He decided that he would ask the questions later, as this person was probably just a bit of a madman. Now he needed to focus on the unconscious girl and her whereabouts. "You know Clara. You're from a helpline, how do you know this woman?"

"More importantly," the Doctor began, growing intrigued, "how do you know her?"

"Crime scene, obviously. She's on the floor unconscious but her actual being is in a computer screen on an indentation of a little girl. Has to do with convoluted technology, do you have anything to do with it?"

The Doctor's hearts both shattered into a billion pieces, each stabbing at his innards like knives. Clara was in danger. Clara, Clara, no…

"No, no, no!" The Doctor yelled. "I'm coming, I'll be there in a minute!" In one swift motion, he hung up the phone and rushed into the TARDIS, flipping gears and switches, setting the time to 2012 and at the house where Clara was, meanwhile dashing to where he stored his clothes, changing out of the monk robe and into his usual clothing (including the bowtie) with a purple tweed coat.

Meanwhile, Sherlock had become choleric after the Doctor hung up on him, trying to call again but not getting an answer. 'I'll be there in a minute!' he had said. Really, now?

John and Lestrade were still downstairs. Oh, they were probably just leisurely waiting for him, discussing what could've happened, while he was doing the work—as usual. But that wasn't a bone of contention. That's just how it always was.

No time to waste! Sherlock practically ran down the stairs, beginning to speak as he did so. "She clicked on the network with the strange symbols, she did! But before that, she had called a helpline. I called it and a man on the other line—" Paused. He rarely paused while explaining or delivering a deduction. It was a rare occurrence, but in this case, there was a cogent purpose.

There was a new human in the room. With dark brown hair and a semi-lurid coat, a man crouched over Clara, checking her for a pulse, then standing to his feet, thus noticing Sherlock, who was now in front of him.

"Ah, Sherlock Holmes! I'm the Doctor! Always wanted to meet you, just never had the time. Well, I have all the time in the universe but it gets tricky after a while." A wide grin curled on his lips, shaking Sherlock's hand and moving over towards the little girl in the dress, who obviously wasn't human. "Now, you… you're not a child… no…" Sherlock glanced over to John, who was looking at him with an expression that read I-have-no-clue-who-he-is and his companion only resumed observing the madman's actions.

The Doctor withdrew his sonic screwdriver from the pocket in his tweed coat, pointing it at the girl and pressing the small round button. Lestrade, who was standing furthest away, looked the most confused and was really holding back on interrogating the stranger who had burst into the house moments ago. An enigmatic bloke, really. Like the insane version of Sherlock in a way.

Upon pressing the button, the girl's form went static, back and forth from her human self to what seemed to be an automaton. After a few seconds, the girl once there was now fully a robot—a machine disguised as a human, but how? How? How was that possible?!

It was too much for Sherlock to process. His mind was working like some sort of mechanism, the gears being overworked and forming sparks and malfunctioning, fueling his confusion. Discombobulated and mystified.

"Ah… A Spoonhead!"

"A _what_?" Lestrade asked, eyes darting between the robot and the Doctor himself.

"Spoonheads! They're walking wifi base stations that work for the Great Intelligence. Just metallic humanoids. But Clara… she looks like she's in there. They were trying to upload her!" John glanced to Sherlock, noticing that he was doing that look. The look where his eyebrows furrowed in the slightest, his pupils absorbed on the Doctor as he rushed up the stairs and brought down Clara's laptop, typing quicker than lightning could strike.

It seemed as if he was attempting to shut down whatever was keeping her "trapped" and bringing back her consciousness, as she was still on the floor in a completely insentient state. The Doctor's fingers slammed down on the small keys, desperate to get her back as his pupils had been dilated ever since he laid eyes on the robot, indicating his interest. Sherlock wondered if he was her boyfriend, or a friend, or something completely different. He would deduce him once the woman arose.

The furious tapping sounds continued on and on until finally, the screen showed that whatever download was occurring had ceased, and the robot shifted more towards the woman, a blue ray of light beaming directly at her. The sudden appearance made Lestrade's and John's eyes widen, never have seen something like that ever before. However, it was over swifter than it had begun, the Doctor setting the laptop aside to place two of his fingers against Clara's neck right on the area where he would be able to check for a pulse like he had done before.

Almost immediately, the girl took an inhalation of air, rolling to the side and began to cough. It was like she had been asphyxiated… almost. Sherlock remembered to the time where one of the members of the Black Lotus had surprised him from behind and almost killed him by strangling him with a tight grip on his neck.

"Oh, Clara, Clara…" The Doctor murmured, holding the back of her head and placing a quick kiss on her forehead.

Sentiment (n.): a chemical defect found on the losing side.

A minute was dedicated to allowing the woman to catch her breath back and maintain her racing heartbeat before she noticed the three strangers in her house. Well, four, but the Doctor was someone she was more familiar with. Clara's brown eyes swept around the faces of each, retreating to the Doctor and asking him who they were under her breath.

"Ah! Always forgetting introductions." He stood up, offering her a hand so she could do the same, and walked towards John. "This is John Watson, he's also a doctor. But not the same sort that I am."

"Wait, how do you know my name?"

"I'm the Doctor. I know everybody's name. Well, not really, but I just like to make myself sound cool." He was grinning now, giddy about his own self.

Reminded John of someone.

"Sounds a lot like Sherlock." The curly-haired man made eye contact with his best friend, not saying a word but keeping his eyes on him for a few seconds before back to the Doctor, observing his gestures and elocution.

He then moved towards the second person. "Greg Lestrade, detective inspector."

"And you know my name too?"

"How could I not know your name?! Oh… lastly…" The Doctor took a few steps so he stood in front of the last man in the room, whose spine was straight up whilst staring in the other man's eyes, intrigued by the entirety of his existence. "The one and only consulting detective. Sherlock Holmes." The last word was uttered in a whisper.

Silence followed, although the sounds of turning gears and working engines in Sherlock's brain while he formulated all sorts of ideas in his head. "You said your name was the Doctor. Why do you call yourself that?"

"Seems insane, doesn't he?" Clara interjected, stepping a bit closer to John so she could get a better view of the two speaking to each other. The tension between them was nearly unbearable.

The question seemed to have made him feel protective and antsy—his features hardened.

"It's my name."

"It's a label. Everyone has a name. A birth name. You don't seem like you want to reveal it."

John could be seen sighing and making a face, prepared for one of Sherlock's deductions to make its appearance at any given second.

The man with two hearts felt weakened but wasn't going to let the king of conviction overcome one of his deepest secrets. His real name.

The Doctor was speechless. It was like he was caught in a coma. Stuck. Frozen.

And Sherlock began his rambling.

"You called on the phone and said you would arrive at this house in exactly a minute, which turned out to be true. Shortening estimated time spans is usually a metaphor but in this case was literal. Your hair is dry, but the weather outside is moist and cold. Recently rained. Your hair is brittle—arid conditions, possibly a desert or in the forest. But precisely a minute to arrive here? Unless you live a house or two away, it's impossible for you to travel at such a fast rate. Now tell me, _Doctor_, how you did it."

The Doctor took a step closer to Sherlock, jaw tightened and eyes darkening only so noticeably. The pain and faint anger was as clear as crystals in the expression he wore. No words came out of his mouth even after his lips parted. No sounds. Only simple taciturnity.

John thought it was an appropriate time to interrupt to attenuate the strain that had clouded in the house. "Sherlock, I think we have more important things to do than question him. Like figure out what just happened."

"He knows exactly what just happened," Sherlock remarked, eyes never leaving the purple-coated madman. "If only he would tell us."

Might as well.

"It's all technology… When you click on the network you start to 'upload' onto a server. Some have already died after they click it, or their souls are trapped and they can't get out. Clara was almost on the brink of death, which was why I came so quick."

"In one minute?"

"Desperate times call for desperate measures…"

"Clearly."

Clara and John seemed to be on the same page recognizing the uncomfortable atmosphere that followed.

"So," she began, her voice a bit hoarse from the lack of air, "why are you all here? Is this some sort of crime scene?"

Sherlock's eyes darted towards Clara, not answering, as Lestrade had begun to explain to her the entire case and what had happened before she connected to the network. In his perspective, time was slowing down just so that he could analyze the woman in the maroon red dress. Evidently in her early twenties… what else, what else? Bright blue hues did a full scan over her again (without being obvious that he was observing her of course) but nothing came to his mind. No information, no facts.

No. Not this again.

Hypothetical question marks appeared next to her. He couldn't solve her. No deduction. No data. It was as if someone had erased all of her specifics and left him with nothing to intuit. The last time it happened was with Irene Adler, who made an appearance with her bare body, and was, at first, unworkable.

Now, there was another woman whom he had to think long and hard about.

Clara Oswald was a mystery he would solve.


End file.
